


'Til The Ocean Is Folded & Hung Up To Dry

by teenuviel1227



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, JiHan, M/M, Only Lovers Left Alive AU, Smut, Vampire AU, side verkwan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-02-03 22:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12757749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenuviel1227/pseuds/teenuviel1227
Summary: Jisoo knows he’ll come back--he always does.Or JiHan are vampires who’ve been married for centuries who are trying to navigate the modern world. The Only Lovers Left Alive AU that no one--well, maybe, except myself--asked for. Sure, you can still appreciate it even if you haven’t seen that film. :) Fluffy, smutty, funny in places.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [All you really need to know about Only Lovers Left Alive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9QmGB47fdQc)\--although I would 100% recommend the film. 
> 
> Title is from "As I Walked Out One Evening" by W.H. Auden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Invite me in, won’t you?

The moon hangs milky in the sky like an oreo split in two and doused with the cream still a perfect circle, unlicked, unbitten--not yet scraped off to be held between tongue and palette. The old house stands tall and pale against the night sky, heavy curtains drawn, the knocker on the front door sitting dusty against the old wood. The house sits right on the bay area, nestled between other tall, lace-trimmed, wide-porched beauties: painted ladies, they’re called. The house has been around for more than a hundred years. 

A cab pulls up to the driveway and a tall, lithe man steps out of the cab, black leather jacket accentuating the line of his shoulders. His hair is black as the night but infinitely more alive--a luster, a sheen to it as it falls chin-length against the sharp line of his jaw. He hands the cabbie a few dollars and the cabbie shivers at his touch. Not cool--cold. He shuts the door behind him, looking up at the face of the bone-white house.  _ Home.  _

Inside the house, the light in the foyer flicks open. From the library, another man sits cross-legged on the victorian-style sofa. He’s clad in loose silk pajamas and a thin, gauzy robe that hangs loose and windblown against his hunger-pang frame despite the absence of any kind of gust. His hair is a pale, rose-blonde, the fringe ghosting above his eyes that glimmer in the dim light. He looks up from his book--poetry by W.H. Auden--and grins at the sound of the taxi door closing. He would know that cadence anywhere, the slow non-beating of the dead heart tied to his own, the same one that fed him first and stilled his own heart before driving it wild with hunger. 

He blinks softly, listening to the footsteps-- _ still hasn’t given up those leather boots-- _ as they climb up the stairs. He stands, letting his light step guide him to the foyer. He can hear him outside the door, the sound of his hand against the air as it makes to reach for the brass knocker, he can already see the way that his smile lilts to one side, the telltale grin of someone knowing he won’t have to knock, knowing that the door will be opened before then. 

In the split second before the brass knocker is lifted from its dust-filled bed, the door creaks open. They take a moment to contemplate each other. Jeonghan watches Jisoo--well,  _ Joshua _ , as he likes to call himself these days--in the warm light of the house, the rose gold of his hair setting off his pale skin: as always, even as it was back then, the thing that gets him is Jisoo’s eyes. Deer-like in their slant, gentle but coy, doe-eyed but mischievous, always one last trick up a sleeve--always. Tonight they shine like ink ensconced in amber. Jisoo watches Jeonghan--so different from the last time they’d seen each other, almost a year to the day, and yet very much the same: his hair is chopped to the chin, parted to the side so that a sliver of it hangs across his face, his clothes more rugged now, less polished than when he’d left. And yet he is still opalescent, still shining in the darkness like the moon hanging above them, their house. Still, Jisoo feels that longing for him like wine longs to kiss air: they are bound, in this they are bound forever, however long that might be. 

Jeonghan grins, his smile crooked but charming. 

Jisoo takes the first step forward, letting his fingertips brush against Jeonghan’s cheek, his jaw, in pursuit of his hair. He tucks the stray strands behind Jeonghan’s ear. 

“You cut your hair.”

Jeonghan sighs before nipping softly at Jisoo’s lower lip. “You always had a thing for that stupid mane. It’s just hair. It’ll grow back.”

Jisoo grins, pressing his lips to Jeonghan’s. They both taste faintly of blood.

“Old habits die hard.”

Jeonghan watches Jisoo’s eyes, feels his gaze linger on him. They both feel it--the earth turning, another era, another set of years for them to catalogue in this neverending limbo. Jisoo is excited, thrilled at the prospect: flying cars and space travel, regimes to rise and fall, more stories to collect. And Jeonghan is tired: more friends to pass away, more places to watch grow and disintegrate, more mammoths to watch turn into fine dust. The argument is an old one, one they’ve been having for years on end but it is also the string that ties them both together, the tether. 

“Are you going to invite me in or are we going to fuck on the porch?” Jeonghan asks, trying to keep his voice sweet. 

Jisoo shrugs. “This is your house too, isn’t it?” 

“That’s not what you said when I took off last year.”

With that, Jisoo draws away from him, letting a fingernail run against Jeonghan’s cheek before turning to let his robe flutter white in the wind like a cloud over the moon in the cool night air. He turns to look at Jeonghan over his shoulder. 

“Well, come in then, husband. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” 

  
  


They sit in the living room, both of them unable to keep apart, the centuries of being together sanding their nature down to one thing: being together, the snake that eats its own tail. Jeonghan gathers Jisoo on his lap, looping a sinewy arm around his narrow waist. Jisoo grins, lifting a languid arm and putting it around Jeonghan’s shoulder, letting his palm rest against the cool flesh of Jeonghan’s nape. He fingers the soft hair there, missing the length of it, the way it looked like spilled ink on their bed the first time they made love.

Love. Jisoo grins. Funny that it can exist even in a state such as theirs--in the unthumping, the unpulsing there is still the want to have and to hold and all the other shit they’d promised. All the shit they still promise.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Jeonghan says, looking around. The wallpaper’s different, some of his vinyl records cleared away, new throw pillows bought to match the motif, their older leather-inspired stuff tossed out in favor of the rustic. 

“Thanks,” Jisoo says. “It was boring without you. How was your trip? Did you find yourself? Find the answer to a meaningful life?”

Jeonghan lifts a hand to cup Jisoo’s jaw. He’s always liked how small he feels, how like a bird letting itself sit in the palm of someone who could destroy him--someone who he knows never would. “Of course not. You knew that when I left. I just needed time to think. We live so long and sometimes I think what’s the point? Every few years we pretend to be someone new: we write and reinvent ourselves into these characters that are just caricatures of who we were.” 

Jisoo kisses his temple. “Because, my love, you know we can’t be who we were.’ 

Jeonghan grins, brings a hand tentatively up to the button of Jisoo’s pajama top, undoing it slowly. When Jisoo doesn’t move to swat his hand away, he continues until Jisoo’s top hangs open. “I like to pretend anyway.” 

Jisoo lets out a laugh. It sounds soft but sharp, like a dagger hidden away behind a silken scarf. Jisoo flutters his lashes, shrugs off one side of his top, revealing an opalescent shoulder. Jeonghan runs his palm down Jisoo’s cheek, the hollow of his neck, feels that hardened lift of skin: two places where he’d sunk his teeth in that first time. Jisoo leans in to kiss him, soft, licking into his mouth as he runs his palm down Jeonghan’s forearm, feeling there two identical scars: where he’d first drunk, all those centuries ago. 

“I don’t regret any of it, you know,” Jisoo says, shifting himself so that he’s straddling Jeonghan, his dark hair like silk in Jisoo’s hands. 

“I know,” Jeonghan says, meeting his eye and kissing down his neck, letting a sharp tooth drag on the flesh before moving lower to kiss at the thin skin of his ribs. “But sometimes I wish I hadn’t been reckless, that I’d let you--”

“--live an unhappy life as the Crown Prince?” Jisoo asks, grinning. “Eventually become king at the expense of my identity? Well, if we’re playing that game tonight then I’ll have you know, I’d take the lack of pulse anyday.” 

Jeonghan grins. “You would have been a great king.” 

Jisoo tilts Jeonghan’s chin up so that their gazes meet. “You did the right thing. You were a wonderful lieutenant. To me, to my family.” 

“If I wasn’t so selfish,” Jeonghan says, letting his tongue guide itself over Jisoo’s nipple, letting his free hand palm over his cock stiff against his pants. “I wouldn’t have turned you.” 

Jisoo grinds against him, making sure to brush against the rising tent in Jeonghan’s pants. Jeonghan slips his hands over Jisoo’s waist, slipping his pants off. He gets off for a moment so they can both undress, both of them watching each other: these bodies preserved in time, these bodies that will never grow old. It’s different, both of them know, to make love, than it was when they were alive, when they were human. Now, the want is tenfold, the climax never enough--it is a hunger not just for release, but to feel  _ something,  _ to be contained or else to break someone else apart. The good thing, Jisoo thinks as he puts his arms around Jeonghan, kissing the hollow of his neck, the line of his collarbones, his shoulder, before bringing himself down over Jeonghan, is that it doesn’t hurt. None of it hurts. He thrusts, feeling Jeonghan tense under him. Jeonghan’s hands grip his hips. Jisoo knows there will be bruises in the morning. He rides and rides as Jeonghan lets out a low rumble in the back of his throat: halfway between a moan a call of despair. Jeonghan leans in, kissing every inch of Jisoo he can, sucking on his nipples until they pucker against his tongue, stroking Jisoo’s cock with the hand that isn’t held flush against the small of Jisoo’s back in a gesture set to comfort--force of habit. He goes fast and close, knows how Jisoo likes it, knows how he’ll feel it. Flesh of palm dragging against the head, tips brushing against the slit. 

Jisoo cries out, burying his fingers in Jeonghan’s hair. He tugs, remembering that first time all those centuries ago, in his room in the palace on the night before the siege--back then, he’d been barely eighteen, bursting with lust for the newly anointed Lieutenant of the Royal Guard. Jeonghan had been young in his cold life back then, had been turned only five years before. Jisoo’s pounding heart woke something in him: it was a battlecry, a mating call, hunger pangs. 

They'd made love on that huge, white bed that lay flat against the floor, the mosquito net white above them like a filter, trapping them in a dream. Even now, it feels hazy, not-quite-real: Jisoo finally loosening Jeonghan’s restraint with those eyes, with that voice that sang of paper cranes and wishes, paper lanterns and dreams. Jeonghan had undone the prince’s Hanbok, peeled the royal blue from the silver, torn the phoenix from the dragon--and Jisoo had let him with composure Jeonghan had never seen from any human being before. In turn, Jisoo had undone every clasp, every ribbon, every medal hanging on Jeonghan’s uniform with greedy hands. His deft fingers had pulled the royal blue ribbon from Jeonghan’s hair and sent the long, black length of it spilling down black as night over the horizon of his skin, his shoulders, his back. 

Jisoo winces in remembrance, almost as though he knows Jeonghan is thinking about that first time too. It had hurt, Jisoo sobbing against Jeonghan until the pain was replaced by pleasure, until Jeonghan pushed into him again and again, until Jisoo came and it was all too-hot and wet and throbbing with life--something Jeonghan hadn’t experienced in years except to feed, otherwise just a hunting mechanism.

It was different with Jisoo. From the moment they’d touched, letting fingertips kiss lips, his decision had been made: he would turn him, he would let him drink from him, he would marry him. 

Jisoo reaches his climax, digging his nails into Jeonghan’s shoulders. He kisses Jeonghan, nipping on his lip until his lip threatens to bleed (it won’t, not easily). Jeonghan holds him down, nails sharp against the pale flesh of his hips as he thrusts into him, chasing his own orgasm, his own release. Devoid of heat, yes, none of the pounding of hearts and spurting of life, but rather, it is a kind of dark catharsis, both of them shuddering into, against, around each other, hunger giving birth to hunger.

Jeonghan keeps going. If their hearts still worked, they both know they would be racing. The hunger curls inside them like dark fire, the opposite of flame, a shadow burning cold as ice.

“I missed you." Jeonghan cums into Jisoo with a final push, lips against the soft flesh of his earlobe. Jisoo grins as he listens to Jeonghan ride out his climax, moaning and whispering little curses in his ear. The rhythmic  _ fuck fuck fuck _ something he likes because it’s the only English Jeonghan has agreed to learn--even after all this time. They collapse languid against each other. 

Jisoo grins, suddenly hungry. The moonlight washes the living room in blue light. Jisoo kisses Jeonghan’s cheek, wondering how long they’ll stay together this time.

“I missed you too. Now, let me go and let’s drink some of the O- I have in the fridge.” 

“Bloodsicle?” Jeonghan asks. 

Jisoo shakes his head. “Cocktail. I’m not a  _ child _ .” 

Jeonghan chuckles, wiping them off with his discarded shirt. 

Jisoo draws his flimsy robe around him, not really covering anything. He reaches a hand out, grinning when Jeonghan takes it. 

“Let’s drink to another lifetime, then.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter soonest--most probably within the next few days. 
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/teenuviel1227)  
> [Blog](http://teenuviel1227.wordpress.com)  
> [Curious Cat](http://curiouscat.me/teenuviel1227)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How about we just fuckin’ dance?

Jisoo wakes up at sundown, muscles sore and aching, unused to being handled the way Jeonghan is wont to handle him (Jeonghan had been gentle the night before for his standards, testing the waters, dipping a figurative toe back into the tides of married life)--he’s stiff after a year of not being entered or held down, kissed or bitten, stroked or made to rise with desire. Jeonghan had held him while they slept and he’d melted into those arms like sugar on a heated rack, letting himself lean back at an angle that was terrible for his posture: on his side, back arched, his neck resting on the crux of Jeonghan’s arm.

Slumber was dreamless for the first time in a while.

There’s a crick in his neck.

He stretches, sits up in bed. Outside, the sky is a vignette: the light kissing the bottom of their window but already fading into the darkness bleeding onto the horizon at its edges. It’s like burnt film, saved but unpreserved, like that picture he knows Jeonghan still keeps in his wallet. It was taken in 1928. They’d just moved to America a few months before--both of them still enamored by the highrises and convertibles and parties where everything glimmered. They’d used Jisoo’s fortune to make more money, bootlegging alcohol for big suppliers, holding their own soirees in the basement of their house (now Jisoo’s studio, the granite bar and gold fixtures still in place, only these days holding expensive guitars and vinyl records). In the photograph, Jeonghan’s hair is long but swept to the side in a ponytail. He’s wearing a white button down, thumbs hooked into the suspenders in imitation of a mechanic. Jisoo’s hair is slicked back save for a curlicue that falls onto his forehead, grazing the tip of his eyebrow. He’s wearing a vest over a polo with the cufflinks undone, a cigarette half-held between his lips.

He can’t remember much about that night except that they’d had fun, most probably. The twenties were fun, easily one of his favorite eras. They don’t talk about it but Jisoo suspects Jeonghan keeps it because it’s one of the rare photographs in which they’re both smiling.

He glances at his husband, still sleeping, exhausted from travel. His lashes cast shadows on his pale cheeks, his hair a mess, the edges uneven but graceful in its own way. _Did he cut it with a knife? Or some kind of sword?_ Jeonghan has always been the more temperamental of the two of them, prone to moods and impulses, always the first to act and the last to forget, his impetus tempered by an introspection, a predisposition to guilt that Jisoo doesn’t possess. Jeonghan says they are who they are: himself with the weighted choices of a Lieutenant, Jisoo with the carefree graces of a prince.

_Except when it comes to you, you sentimental idiot._

Jisoo smiles, kisses Jeonghan softly on the forehead. He wonders if it’s that which brings him sleep like long-coveted death whenever Jeonghan is near him--he, so quick to forget, so easy to absolve himself (themselves) of guilt, finds himself burdened with Jeonghan’s military honor in his absence. Without Jeonghan in his bed, he dreams about friends they’d lost over the years, friends they hadn’t turned who had passed away (which fate was worse, they could never decide), he dreams about his family, of the end of his lineage. He dreams about the palace before it fell with its green and red and yellow wooden awnings. Flowers and clouds, Seoul, that other home from another life.

In the absence of Jeonghan, he bears both their consciences. _How does he sleep without me?_ Over the past year there were nights when he would ask one of his friends, a few of those like them--often Mingyu, sometimes Vernon (he was seeing someone--warm-blooded--and it was hard for him to get away), rarely Seungcheul (he’s always liked Jeonghan better, is prone to blaming Jisoo for Jeonghan’s fits of restlessness)--to come over and hold him, to stroke his hair until he fell asleep, but that only made it worse, the substitute only highlighting the longed-for object of his affection. In the evenings, he would wake up guilt-ridden and depressed, taking to thinking about ways to redecorate the house or make new blood cocktail recipes or experiment with lifehacks--to distract himself, he’d opened many a bottle of wine he wouldn’t drink with random objects: a shoe, a book, a folded up sweater.

On the bed beside him, Jeonghan stirs as if following his train of thought, as if knowing what he’s been thinking. Jisoo smiles as he feels that familiar grip on his wrist, that strong tug, a gust of motion, a flurry of blankets. In a single motion, Jeonghan has pulled him back onto the bed, is hovering over him, gazing down at him with intense eyes. His hair frames his face, luminous in the fading light. His eyebrows crease. Jisoo reaches up to smooth it over. _He’s been dreaming._ Jeonghan never tells him about his dreams--by now, Jisoo knows not to ask.

Jeonghan watches him for a moment before speaking, his voice still gruff from sleep. “Who do you belong to, Hong Jisoo?”

Jisoo smiles, pushing softly at Jeonghan’s chest, keeping his hand there as if feeling for a heartbeat. “Lieutenant Yoon Jeonghan of the Royal Guard of Joseon.”

Jeonghan grins, then, his expression easing. “Breakfast?”

Jisoo smirks, pushing Jeonghan off him. “You say it like it’s a request.”

 

They sit in the kitchen more as a formality than anything--their high-end stove doesn’t have any gas put in, they don’t exactly _eat_ , not since modern technology allowed the sanitary transfer of blood. There was a time when they used to feed, used to lure in prey by hook or by crook--some of them entranced by the contrast and combination of them: pretty, they knew, and also enticing in their own way, they knew, for their androgyny and poise, their quiet strength held in the space between them. There were men and women, sometimes both, sometimes at the same time, depending on the time, the place, the mood, the hunger.

But something in it couldn’t sit well with them in the long run, their reasons opposing but united in its result. Since turning Jisoo, Jeonghan couldn’t look his prey in the eyes, couldn’t engage the way he used to, couldn’t bear the look of admiration, of almost-love as they sunk their teeth in. And Jisoo, more bookish, more inclined to poetry and art and painting, music than outdoor sport or hunting, frankly found it gross--especially after, didn’t have the stomach for the blank stare and the decomposing bodies they often found themselves having to hide.

These days, they got their supply from a nearby hospital where one of their mortal friends--Dr. Kang Younghyun, whose grandfather of the same name they knew from when they helped transport then-banned medical supplies into Seoul back during the sixties dictatorship (thus his nickname: YoungK)--who had access to the blood bank. He gave them what they needed for a fee which went to the hospital’s rare diseases research facility. Over the years, Jisoo had discovered that he could prepare the blood different ways: it had to be cold for it to keep but found that once turned, taste had more to do with scent than anything. He found that adding vanilla extract, some hazelnut essence made a big difference. He made caramel-infused bloodsicles (Jeonghan’s favorite although he would never admit it), vanilla cocktails, citrus sorbet. In the time that Jeonghan’s been away, he’s come up with something new--a yuzu infusion on the rocks, his favorite thing to date.

He takes two clear mugs from the cupboard, their bodies stenciled with delicate flowers, lays them on the kitchen counter. Jeonghan watches him, admiring the way Jisoo always seems to move with a kind of quiet grace, the way he never seems agitated by anything. The mugs barely clink on the island countertop as he sets them down. He opens the fridge, taking out a pitcher labelled _Flower_.

“Is this new?” Jeonghan asks as Jisoo sets it down before reaching into the freezer for some ice.

Jisoo nods. “I thought it’d remind you of home. In a good way. It’s not as strong as anything I’ve made before but it’s good enough.”

Jeonghan nods, watching eagerly as Jisoo pours the crimson mixture into the waiting mugs with ice. He’s hungry. If his stomach could, it would rumble. “It smells amazing.”

Jisoo grins, replacing the pitcher and the tray of ice. “I hope it tastes just as good.”

“I’ll like whatever you make.” Jeonghan says, reaching for his mug.

Jisoo rolls his eyes. “Liar.”

Jeonghan smiles, lifting the mug. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

Their glasses clink.

They drink. Jeonghan feels the relief, the rush of nourishment course through him. It’s delicious--and Jisoo is right. There’s something about the floral essence, the scent of it: at once fragrant and earthy, fresh and teeming with flavor that reminds him of home. He finishes it in one go, unable to resist the urge to lick the ice cubes, the perimeter of his mug.

“I knew you’d like it,” Jisoo says. “There’s more in the fridge you know. You don’t have to eat the glass.”

“Right,” Jeonghan says. “What do you feel like doing tonight? Maybe we could watch a movie or look at old photographs--”

“--actually, I asked Mingyu and Vernon over. We were going to head out clubbing tonight if you didn’t show.”

“And Seungcheul?"

“If you didn’t show, I said. You know how he gets. I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture on my marriage.”

“When have I ever not shown?” Jeonghan frowns. “I don’t want to go clubbing. I’m tired of the whole scene. DJ-ing in Tokyo was an experience but after a while, everything got too strong--the thumping, all that blood coursing through flesh, the exhilaration. It could drive anyone crazy.”

Jisoo looks at him, gaze level. “Well. When you leave at the drop of a hat every forty or so years and tell someone that your life with them is the crux of your guilt, people tend to make other plans.”

“I said I would be back and I’m back,” Jeonghan says. “Sorry if that interrupted your plans.”

Jisoo doesn’t say anything, just blinks, half-amused. “I can’t believe you’ve been alive for a billion years and still don’t quite get _it_.”

“Get what?”

Jisoo reaches over to his iPod, hooks it up to the bluetooth speaker, and plays a track, one of his and Jeonghan’s favorite songs from the sixties--something about rain and pitter-patter pitter-patter oh-ooh-oh listen, listen to the falling rain. The guitar melody trickles in, the rhythm catchy. Jisoo sways a little, still smiling at Jeonghan who he can tell is resisting the urge not to sway along too. Jisoo does a little dance, turning so that his robe furls and unfurls, until he stands in front of Jeonghan.

“That meaning of life that you keep looking for isn’t something you can go out and get at the supermarket, it’s not a pearl you dive for. It’s in the everyday things, stitched like gold thread through everything. The people you meet, the conversations you have. If the mortals’ burden is death, ours is life--we have to live it.” He bows, reaching a hand out to Jeonghan. “Now dance with the man you married.”

Reluctantly, Jeonghan smiles, takes his hand before pulling Jisoo toward him with a flourish. Jisoo grins, putting a hand on Jeonghan’s shoulder, the other holding his free hand as Jeonghan holds him by the waist. They dance to the rhythm, both of them singing along to the melody. Jeonghan spins Jisoo out and then back, holding him close as the track fades out.

They hear the rumble of a motorcycle outside, the sound of bickering and heavy steps making their way up the porch. The doorbell rings.

“They’re here,” Jisoo says, pulling Jeonghan behind him, down the foyer and toward the door.

 

“So basically you traded one busy city for another?” Vernon asks pointedly, crossing his legs as they sit on the couch. Tonight, Vernon is wearing a black leather jacket over a Rolling Stones shirt, has it tucked into leather jeans over which he wears black leather boots. Jeonghan takes this as dress code--wherever they’re going, it’s no Avalon.

Jeonghan sighs at the tone in his old friend’s voice--he should be used to it by now. “You know that isn’t the point--”

“--anyway,” Jisoo cuts in, walking into the room with the refreshments. “The point is he’s back now. We should talk about something else, like tonight, maybe. Where is the club and what should we prepare for.”

He hands out the blood-tinis in wide-mouthed glasses, infused with the essence of olives and splashed with actual liquor--god’s joke being that _that_ still somehow worked.

“This is good,” Mingyu says, nodding in approval, licking his lips before finishing the entire thing in one go.

Jisoo smiles. “Did you really expect any less from me?”

“Of course not. I was just saying.” Mingyu grins, embarrassed. Jeonghan catches the look: if Mingyu could, he would blush.

“Anyway,” Jeonghan says. “If you’ll stop flirting with my husband, what _are_ we all in for tonight?”

Vernon grins, handing them a small calling card. “It’s a mixed club, vamps and morts, but more lowkey, chill, just a good place to hang out. They’ve got good music, a decent-sized dance floor if you guys are so inclined. Seungkwan found it for me and being a mixed-mortality couple, I think it’s good to have safe places to go.”

“Great,” Jisoo says, clapping his hands together softly. “I love Seungkwan. He’s hilarious.”

“When are you going to stop robbing the cradle?” Jeonghan jokes, taking a sip of his blood-tini. The alcohol goes right to his head.

Vernon laughs. “Yeah, I don’t know. He’s wonderful. He’s warm and adorable and I don’t think I could ever turn him. The guilt--”

He glances up at Jeonghan, who looks back at him, gaze blank.

“--well, the guilt would kill me. Some people can take it, I know. I didn’t mean it like that, but I don’t think I could.”

Jeonghan shrugs, glances at Jisoo, who is playing with the ice cube at the bottom of his glass. “They don’t stop being funny and stupid after they’re turned, you know.”

“Oh,” Jisoo says, feigning surprise. “Was that a dig at me, husband dear? Personally, I trust Vernon. I’d be afraid to turn Seungkwan too.”

Vernon and Mingyu laugh at that.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jisoo grins. “You’ll see when you meet him.”

 

Seungkwan is at the bar, waving wide and dancing by himself as he belts out the high notes to the original version of the remix playing in the background when they get there. Vernon sidles up to him, kissing him softly before looping an arm around his waist.

Mingyu climbs onto the barstool, ordering them a round of shots--mostly blood-quila, with one regular for Seungkwan. Jisoo tugs Jeonghan along. Jeonghan looks around: Vernon was right, the club is a good balance--lively but not too crowded, just the enough ratio of mortals to vamps, everyone chatting amicably, the dancefloor reasonably populated. He tries to relax, tries to enjoy the moment.

He watches Jisoo as they join the rest of them: tonight, he’s worn cerulean-blue eyeliner, subtle but stunning once it catches the light, accentuating the shape of his eyes, those eyes, his one weakness. They’d dressed to match--another force of habit--both of them in black: Jisoo in a turtleneck that hugs his lanky frame, accentuates that almost-equestrian grace to him, sterling silver studs gleaming in his ear, and Jeonghan in a black silk shirt with a neckline that dips and a black ribbon that ties around his neck, loose but enough to allow a peek at the hollow of his throat. He’s worn his hair down but tucked behind one ear at Jisoo’s request, Jeonghan unable to turn down a request when it sounds like a compliment, when it’s whispered from those lips.

“Seungkwan, this is Jeonghan, my husband,” Jisoo says. “Jeonghan, this is Seungkwan, Vernon’s boyfriend.”

Jeonghan holds out his hand. Seungkwan shakes it excitedly. His palm is so warm, it’s on the verge of scalding as far as Jeonghan’s concerned. “Nice to meet you.”

“Well, finally,” Seungkwan jokes. “When Joshua said to meet us tonight, I wasn’t sure if we were going to meet you and have fun or hear about you and have Joshua cry.”

Jeonghan laughs. “Joshua doesn’t cry.”

Jisoo glances at the dance floor, avoiding Jeonghan’s eye.

Vernon nudges Seungkwan, mouths _shut up, baby._

“Ahhhhh right. I meant. Try. If you didn’t show up, we were ready to see Joshua _try_ to dance.”

Jeonghan grins. “Well, I’m here and _Shua_ isn’t going to be doing any crying.”

He reaches for the shots on the tray in front of Mingyu, hands one to Jisoo.

Jisoo grins. “That’s the spirit.”

Everyone else takes a shot glass as the music switches to something a little more upbeat, more rhythmic.

“To life and love,” Seungkwan says, raising his shot glass.

“I’ll drink to that,” Vernon seconds.

They cheers, all of them downing their shots. Jeonghan slams his glass down on the countertop before pulling Jisoo toward him in a kiss. Jisoo smiles against him, hopeful for tonight--that it’ll be fun, that they’ll have a good time.

“You okay?” Jeonghan whispers into his ear.

Jisoo looks at him, nods toward the dancefloor. “How about we just fuckin’ dance?”

Jeonghan hesitates.

Jisoo tugs at the ribbon around his neck, slowly unspooling the silk. When he speaks his voice is soft, seductive in that way that makes Jeonghan’s stomach pitch with excitement.

“Who do you belong to, Lieutenant?”

“Hong Jisoo, _Seja Joha_ ,” He whispers--that old title almost never uttered between them.

Jisoo grins, satisfied.

With that, Jeonghan lets Jisoo pull him onto the dance floor, the music reverberating into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. This might end up being more than 5 chapters, but let’s wing it. Next chapter soon. :) 
> 
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> [Blog](http://teenuviel1227.wordpress.com)  
> [Curious Cat](http://curiouscat.me/teenuviel1227)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s guilt like the hilt of a sword.

They’ve had a little bit too much to drink--both knowing they shouldn’t keep going but tipping each other’s elbows anyway, downing shot after shot, the dancing and the music and the buzz too much fun to resist. The dance floor is alive with music, with color, the lights bouncing off of bodies: Vernon had been right, the mix in here was just right. The pulsing of hearts around them enough to excite but not to aggravate. More than anything, it’s their proximity to each other that pushes them both over the edge--Jeonghan can smell the sweat off of Jisoo’s skin, knows where his turtleneck is clinging to the small of his back, knows the point at which his waist narrows and where it lets out, Jisoo knows that it’s taking all of Jeonghan’s restraint not to slip a hand under the knit fabric and rip the sweater off of him. He sees it in the way that Jeonghan’s arms tense under the silk of his shirt, in the way his jaw is set, the way he bites his lip and looks at him from under the stubborn fringe that refuses to stay tucked behind his ear. And so, Jisoo downs another shot and pulls Jeonghan closer by the nape, kissing him as if to chase the blood and alcohol, licking into his mouth so they both taste the headiness of it, the sting burning them both.

Jisoo smiles, slips his leg between Jeonghan’s thighs, dances slow, excruciating, letting a finger skim across the small v at the hollow of his throat. Jeonghan sighs, doesn’t want to give in, isn’t willing to be played with on a night he hadn’t wanted to go out, refuses to be eager when he’d been the one hesitant to be there. Jisoo lets go, heads back toward the bar, glancing back at Jeonghan to make sure he’s looking, to make sure he’s watching him walk away. 

Jeonghan’s head is swimming. Jisoo looks beautiful.  _ I love you. I don’t deserve you. _

When Jisoo walks back, it’s with two clear shots of pure Vodka, no blood to dilute it. It’ll shoot through them like rocket fuel. He wiggles his eyebrows. Jeonghan sighs but can’t help but grin back. 

“We’re going to regret that.”

Jisoo shrugs, speaks in English, knowing Jeonghan understands despite feigning ignorance. “We’ve got all the time in the fucking world.”

“Fuck,” Jeonghan says, reaching out to take one of the shots. “My favorite English word.”

"Your  _only_ English word," Jisoo corrects.

They grin, both of them remembering that first time they’d drank together, Jeonghan reluctantly sneaking the carafe of bamboo wine into the Crown Prince’s quarters. Jisoo had wanted to drink, kept trying to sneak out of his quarters--as his bodyguard, Jeonghan had one duty: to protect the prince’s life. And so he figured it was the lesser evil to bring the thing he was sneaking out for to him.  _ Idiot.  _

The evening was cool, twilight hanging young in the sky--not yet black, still the deepest of purples, the most crimson of pinks. Jeonghan had gotten up early, had decided to run the risk of mild sun burn. He walked to the Crown Prince’s room in a small state of awe as he watched the birds hurry across the sky as the day pulled her dark veil around her face. He’d almost forgotten what sunlight looked like when it wasn’t fading into something else. 

He’d relieved the Lieutenant on duty, slid the rice paper doors open to see the prince cross-legged at the table, reading a book of poems: something about the sea, the sky, the phoenix fated to be born again and again from whatever destroys it. Blue shone against his skin, his crown high, the small floral emblems twinkling in the lamplight. 

“I brought you something.” 

To Jeonghan, Jisoo was like a bird kept in a cage for its own safety. He wanted to make the cage as livable a place as possible. To Jisoo, Jeonghan was the crux of his day--he’d taken to sleeping through the mornings to be able to stay awake as long as possible in Jeonghan’s presence. For lack of a better reason, Jisoo likes how he looks: he’s handsome, his hair up, gathered in a high ponytail, a bandana the deep green of their house tied across his forehead. Lotus flowers for luck. 

It was the first time Jisoo had let his inhibitions go enough for anything to happen, the first time Jeonghan felt an urge he didn’t have a handle on, the first time they were in any kind of danger in each others’ company--the beginning of the end. Jeonghan’s family was from a long line of warriors serving the royal house, all of them turned: when he was growing up, when he accepted training, he knew his destiny, knew what he’d been getting into. He’d made a choice because it was the only choice his family had. When he’d been assigned to the Crown Prince, he’d known Jisoo was tempting--pretty, delicate on the outside with a heartbeat that thrummed in your ears, bursting with confidence, but he’d always had a handle on it. Duty first. Until that day, everything was crystal clear.

He’d overshot his restraint: the alcohol had gone right to his head, finding himself undone by a coyly phrased question. Now, Jisoo picks up that rope of thought right as Jeonghan decides to drop it, to push it away because it comes tethered to guilt. 

As he raises his shot glass to Jeonghan’s, he repeats that fateful phrase he’d uttered so long ago. 

“When you sipped from that cup, did you think of my mouth?”

Jeonghan clinks his glass against Jisoo’s.  _ Yes. I imagined the ceramic lip was yours, traced it with my tongue.  _ They both take the shot. Everything tilts, lilts, pleasure running up their spines. Jeonghan is lightheaded in the best way--and also aroused, wanting nothing but to tear Jisoo apart right there on the dancefloor. He, too, finds that his answer has been untarnished by time. He closes the gap between them, kissing Jisoo full-on, all tongue and teeth, sucking on his lower lip, licking into his mouth, nipping at the curve of his upper lip where it curves. 

When they pull away, Jisoo leans over to whisper in his ear. “Let’s get out of here.”

  
  


Mingyu drops them off, Vernon and Seungkwan left to their own devices, disappearing into one of the bar’s back rooms. They’re apologetic as they kiss breathlessly in the backseat, the sound of it loud and slicked and slow. 

“You two are disgusting,” Mingyu says as he pulls up at their house. 

Jisoo pulls away long enough to shoot Mingyu an apologetic glance. “Sorry and thanks, buddy. We owe you big time.” 

Jeonghan nods, patting Mingyu on the shoulder as Jisoo opens the door. “We’ll buy you dinner next week.”

Mingyu waves them off. “Yeah, yeah. Take care, love bats.” 

They grin at the reference to the vampiric stereotype as they clamber out of the car. They run up the front porch, lithe and light-footed but hurried, clumsy with drink and desire as they take the usual precautions: lock the door and pull the curtains shut, knowing fully well they could be at it until the sun comes up. 

As soon as they’re in their bedroom, Jeonghan tugs Jisoo toward him by the belt loops, slips his hand under his sweater before tearing at it from the inside, fingers clawing at the fabric as it comes undone from its tight weave, seams tearing. Jisoo sighs as the fabric gives way _ \--another one bites the dust-- _ but doesn’t have long to linger on the waste of a good turtleneck because Jeonghan’s hands have found the soft skin of his nipples, his mouth has found the tender skin of Jisoo’s neck. Jeonghan sucks, hard, knowing how much it takes for them to bruise and wanting proof, wanting a claim that Jisoo is his--his fool, his lover, at least inasmuch as Jeonghan is his. Jeonghan likes how Jisoo sighs under him like paper in the wind: violently, as though a storm is running through his veins. He bucks his hips as Jeonghan lets his fingers glide down the thin skin of his ribs, he tilts his head back as Jeonghan sucks harder, almost piercing skin, almost drawing blood. 

Jeonghan pushes Jisoo down against the bed, kissing lower, lower, pulling at the buttons of his jeans until it threatens to pop off, before pulling them clean off of him. He watches him lying on the bed, neck, chest marked with deep blue bruises. Jeonghan grins.  _ Blue blood, huh. _ Jisoo’s hard, his cock leaking onto his slender thigh. His knee-high socks are the palest gray. Jeonghan likes how they press into the flesh right above his knees. 

“Stop staring already.” 

Jeonghan grins, unbuttoning his shirt painfully slow, putting on a show. “If only I could.” 

He grins, feels Jisoo’s gaze on him as he slips out of his shirt, the moonlight highlighting the shape of him--the cut of the sinew on his arms, his torso, his chest, his hips where they disappear into tight jeans. He unbuttons his jeans, stepping out of them, letting his erection spring free. 

Jeonghan moves back over Jisoo in full-force, guiding himself in and going deep, satisfied by Jisoo’s sharp intake of breath. He moves his neck to one side, as if asking Jeonghan to lean back down, to mark him again. Jeonghan thrusts, obliging in softer licks, gentler nips. The shock of pleasure through the veil of alcohol sends a shiver down his spine, the carefreeness of it ignites a dark fire of desire in his gut. He moves Jisoo’s knees so that he’s spread wider, before he gathers them close so he’s bent farther back. Jeonghan goes fast, deep, wanting so bad for them to feel the pleasure at their core, in their bones.  _ Like we’re alive.  _ The bed creaks underneath them. Jisoo’s voice is loud now, hoarse but cracking, calling out his name as he runs his hands down Jeonghan’s back, nails making their mark. 

_ Jeonghan, Jeonghan, Jeonghan.  _

“Fuck,” Jeonghan says, pinning Jisoo down by the shoulders. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. You feel so good.” 

Jisoo mewls a little too loud before looking up at Jeonghan, meeting his gaze as he bats his lashes, licks his lips as he watches Jeonghan’s eyebrows knit in passion. “I’m your fool, Jeonghan--”

Jeonghan moves a hand from Jisoo’s knee, slipping a finger into Jisoo’s mouth. Jisoo pouts, letting his lips pucker against Jeonghan’s finger before sucking, letting his tongue lap like a kitten would at milk. It sets Jeonghan off, he moves faster, slamming into Jisoo with more force, sending them both into a string of moans, of crying out each others’ names in the dark. 

“Touch yourself,” Jeonghan says softly. 

Jisoo obliges,  trying to keep sucking on Jeonghan’s fingers while using his free hand to stroke himself. His voice breaks, the softness of it curling around Jeonghan’s name. Jeonghan pushes in faster, faster, faster, before spilling into Jisoo--he keeps going, chasing Jisoo’s climax and riding out his own, muscles tense, skin tingling from the overstimulation. Jisoo strokes himself to Jeonghan’s rhythm, finally cumming onto his hand with one final movement.

Jeonghan pulls out, falls onto the bed beside him. He’s dizzy from the sex, from the alcohol but his hands find Jisoo nonetheless, pulling him close to his chest. He strokes his back, kisses the top of his head. Jisoo snuggles against Jeonghan’s chest, feeling safe there against the familiar landscape of a body he’s known for ages. 

Jeonghan smiles softly, watching Jisoo’s eyes flutter shut. 

“Goodnight, my prince.” 

  
  


The next evening they drive to the hospital to get supplies. The hospital is bigger, better-lit than Jeonghan remembers. Jisoo keeps his hand on the small of his back as they walk to Dr. Kang’s office. Jeonghan hates hospitals. The smell of death is at the core of them, the base note in the scent covered up by Isopropyl and air freshener. He wrinkles his nose as they walk down the corridor. He’d agreed to come along because he’d woken to the sound of Jisoo whispering in his sleep--it was a soft, vulnerable sound. He didn’t want him to be alone, didn’t want to be without him. 

“You’re back,” Dr. Kang says as they stroll into his office.

Jeonghan nods, glad to see his old friend still smiling, still as jovial as always. “That I am. How’s the year been?” 

“Pretty good,” Dr. Kang says, pulling a small cooler out from under a compartment in his desk. “Blood trade’s been easier these days. I don’t think vampies will be accepted better into society anytime soon but there’s this silent movement toward that. And I’m down with that.” 

Jisoo grins. “YoungK and Jae have been doing more research on the possible synthesis of blood.” 

Jeonghan grimaces. “Isn’t it bad enough that we have to beg for these things just to survive when we can’t even die?” 

Dr. Kang laughs as Jisoo hands him the money--a sealed brown envelope changing hands. “Well, if we could do that, we could probably be able to change the perception that vampires are these scary, evil creatures that suck blood and kill people to survive--” 

“--that’s great. It’s all honorable work and we’re grateful.” Jisoo glances at Jeonghan so quick that anyone else would miss it, but Jeonghan knows Jisoo is studying his face for the slightest wince, reading him for a shift in his mood. 

Jeonghan tries to keep his face deadpan.  _ But we are monsters. We are.  _

  
  


The ride home feels long even if it’s just around twenty minutes. Jeonghan is quiet, not wanting to talk about his trip or about how he feels, knowing that Jisoo is dying to know but refuses to ask because they know each other like they know themselves if not better. 

Instead, Jisoo plays him a new track that he’s been working on with Vernon while Jeonghan’s been away: something about a rocket and letting it fly or launch or something like that. Jeonghan struggles with the English, half-hates that Jisoo speaks it so fluently and so often, if only because he misses the softness of his tongue against his palette when he says his name with the J hard as in Joshua. It’s  _ Jeonghan _ as in  _ chair,  _ or  _ choice.  _ It’s a sigh, a lover’s whisper, not a battlecry.  

“What’d you think?” Jisoo asks as they round the curb, nearing their neighborhood. 

Jeonghan glances at his handsome face as he hits the signal lights. They turn right. “I liked it. It’s really good.” 

Jisoo grins. “Thank you. Now, you were talking about movie night yesterday and I think that now we’ve got blood, I can make a fresh batch of something I like to call butter cara--” 

They pull up to the house to find a shiny, emerald green convertible parked outside their house. Leaning against it is the broad, familiar frame of the one person Jisoo doesn’t feel like seeing--Choi Seungcheul, shades atop his head, deep blue coat blowing in the evening breeze.

Jisoo sighs. “--on second thought, I don’t feel like being lectured right now. I can spend the night in my study. You and Seungcheul can talk.” 

“You’re always too hard  on him,” Jeonghan says softly, trying to coax Jisoo into relaxing. 

Jisoo shakes his head. “He hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you.” 

“Well, then why the fuck won’t he just let the past go?” 

  
  


The palace is under siege--the invaders have crept from the coast over the mountains from the direction opposite than they’d expected. Jisoo sits on the bed, still in his court robes, afraid of and startled at the loud noises that come in from outside. Jeonghan is ready: sword drawn, armor on under his robes. 

“Don’t worry,  _ Joha _ ,” he says, squaring his shoulders, trying to hear where the footsteps are coming from--which direction they’ll be coming from, tries to differentiate the smells in the air, to call the score.  _ How many men do they have?  _ “I’ll take care of it. Just get ready to get on my back when I say so. If we need to run, we’ll run.” 

“Okay,” Jisoo says. His hands are cold. He watches Jeonghan’s upright figure, traces the strong line of his shoulders as if he’ll disappear if he blinks. He’s afraid--there had been news of threats, he’d known that, but theirs was a peaceful empire, one that had done good business with neighboring countries until recently. He hadn’t expected something of this scale. Maybe a threat--but not an attack. “You’ll protect us right? We’ll be alr--” 

Jisoo makes a high-pitched, shocked sound before he falls off the bed with a clatter.

Jeonghan turns, realizing it too late: that top note, that high whinnying, almost invisible against the din and roar of the logs against the heavy wood of the palace doors, of the ladders being slung over the high walls--the telltale whistle of an arrow nocked and shot with confidence as it sings closer to its mark. He drops his sword, running toward Jisoo, who is gasping for breath, his blood already pooling on the floor under him. 

“No,” Jeonghan says, grief flooding him, the question of what to do next already bearing down on him like the burden of the sword on his shoulders the day he was knighted. “No no no no no--” 

Jisoo looks up at him, blinking slowly, afraid but already starting to get groggy from the loss of blood, the effort to stay awake almost too much to handle. When he speaks, his voice is soft, broken. “--Lieutenant Yoon.”

“Yes, my prince?”

“Save me.” Jisoo takes a deep breath. A pang of pain, sharp as the arrow in his lung floods through him. Jeonghan feels a kind of pain deep in his bones, one that he has never felt before. Jisoo looks at him with those eyes. “You’re bound by the name of your house--” 

Jeonghan watches him then, on the brink of death--thinks of the way that Jisoo looks when he blushes, the way that his laugh makes his whole body tremble, fills him with laughter. He thinks of the way that Jisoo feels when their bodies are entwined, of the way he is warm even against Jeonghan’s cool touch. He thinks of the softness of his voice, that sardonic undertone undercut by affection--by far Jeonghan’s favorite song, his favorite melody, rhythm. 

It’s forbidden. Turning people outside their house punishable by death--moreso someone from the royal family, someone they’ve sworn to protect. Jisoo’s eyes fill with tears he’s barely able to shed, barely able to muster the strength to blink them away. Jeonghan’s heart lurches in his chest, still as it may be. He is being selfish, he knows. He makes his decision knowing it is colored by the fact that eternity is too long a time for him to carry around the grief of losing the one person he loves, the one he’s sworn to protect. 

And so he leans down, bites into Jisoo’s soft, slender neck and sucks as gently as he can. The heartbeat is already fading, but his blood is sweet, so sweet. Jisoo gasps weak under him. The change is subtle but Jeonghan can see it almost immediately: that moonlit pallor already replacing the pink blush of life, the blue that will kill him or refuse him the right to die. Jeonghan lets off, bites his own wrist until he bleeds, offering it to Jisoo, guiding his mouth, tipping his chin up softly to help him down the blood. He knows how it tastes--a little like wine left too long with the strong current of iron, too much iron not spent, not carried through anywhere. But Jisoo drinks and drinks and drinks, laps and suckles until Jeonghan feels him latch on, teeth opening his skin wider, puncturing him further. The arrow snaps as Jisoo starts to heal, his body pushing it out of itself like a splinter out of a sponge. Jisoo lets out a soft gasp of pain as the point of the arrow exits his body. He regains some strength, then, pulling Jeonghan’s wrist closer to him, wanting more, more. 

“Enough,” Jeonghan says, starting to feel lightheaded. Jisoo refuses to let go, only bares his teeth, gulps harder. Jeonghan holds him down gentle but firm, pushing Jisoo’s teeth away as he pulls his wrist back, staunching the bleeding with the long sleeve of his robe. It bleeds vermillion on jade. “Jisoo. Don’t be a brat. That’s enough.” 

Jisoo stares at him with wide eyes, filled with hunger, that crazed desire to sap life, take it for his own. His mouth, his chin are stained crimson. His robes are scarlet from laying in a pool of his own blood. “I’m hungry.”

He grasps at Jeonghan like a child left looking for milk, searching for a teat against its mother’s chest. Jeonghan frowns, picking his sword up and re-sheathing it. He scoops Jisoo into his arms. He is cool to the touch--no, cold like stone, like Jeonghan. 

“We’ll feed later. They’re going to kill us if we don’t get out of here.”  _ They’ll leave us out in the sun to die. The ashes of my bones will be scattered over the fields for shame--your family will forget about you.  _

Jisoo goes slack in Jeonghan’s arms, an ache consuming him, smells and tastes and sounds coming alive everywhere.

Jeonghan makes to burst through the door when it opens and in walks Choi Seungcheul, General of the Royal Guard, sword at the ready, coming to rescue them. He frowns, takes in Jisoo’s red-stained mouth, his amber eyes, pallor like marble, glances at Jeonghan’s fearful expression, the pool of blood on the floor, his bloodied sleeve. He meets Jeonghan’s gaze, both of them knowing that the General knows what’s been done, what crime has been committed. When he speaks, his voice booms, cutting like a guillotine released too quickly.

“Idiot. What the hell have you done?” 

“I--Sir, I--”

It’s Jisoo who answers, voice frail, soft. “--General Choi, as your prince, I command you to give me and my consort, Lieutenant Yoon, safe passage. Obey me or I’ll have your head mounted.” 

Jeonghan sees the question in Seungcheul’s eyes at the word  _ consort.  _ “With all due respect,  _ Seja Joha,  _ the King has fallen. Your family has no power here, now.” 

Jeonghan looks at his old friend’s face, watches sadness replace fear replace anger replace doubt. Slowly, Jeonghan gets on his knees, bows his head, Jisoo still cradled in his arms. He addresses General Choi with a voice uncharacteristically soft for him.

“Please, old friend. Please. One last thing before everything goes to hell. I--I love him. Duty, yes, but when that is gone, isn’t love all we have?”

Seungcheul looks down at him, sighs, overcome with pity--for both of them, for everyone in the kingdom, for all they’d already lost, all they’d have yet to part with. 

“Get up. Follow me.”

Relief washes over Jeonghan as he gets up, runs behind Seungcheul as they make their way to the dungeons, to the passage from the palace and out to the river, to the coast. With that relief comes guilt, a guilt that sits in the middle of his chest even now, centuries after--guilt like the hilt of a sword, entwined with love, life, both the thing killing him and keeping him alive.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The darkness that yawns, light that spills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a lot of inspiration from Anne Rice’s Interview With A Vampire for the flashback in this chapter. :) If you guys haven’t read that, it’s such a good book. Seriously like the Lestat x Louie x Claudia dynamic is one of the most tense and interesting I’ve ever read.

Seungcheol watches the library door shut behind Jisoo, the oak kissing metal as the door clicks. Jeonghan sighs, leads them into the kitchen where he fixes them two of Jisoo’s Yuzu cocktails before nodding toward the basement. They walk light-footed down the dimly lit stairwell. Jeonghan can hear Jisoo even from rooms away, pulling a book from the shelves, the old, cracked spines sighing dust. He feels the weight of him as he sits on the sofa, the springs creaking under him, however light he may be. 

Seungcheol pushes the heavy door open and Jeonghan walks through the doorway with the drinks. Seungcheol hits the switch and the lights flicker on. Jeonghan looks around, takes in the art deco flourish that Jisoo’s given the studio in his absence--it’s not so much refurbishing as it is peeling back the minimalist skin and turning it back into the place it was back in the twenties. 

“He always redecorates when you leave,” Seungcheol says, taking a seat on the couch. “I think it’s some kind of coping mechanism, like he thinks he can reupholster the past. Like if he can change something about this place, it’ll somehow keep you from going or bring you back.”

“I know.” Jeonghan hands Seungcheol his drink before sitting cross-legged in the easychair opposite him. He leans back, tosses his hair out of his eyes before sipping from his drink. “But it works in a way, doesn’t it? When I come back, he’s here and in one piece. We pick up where we left off.”

“He still doesn’t understand and that’s the problem.”

“That’s a burden that I’ve always wanted to protect him from. I want him to feel alive,” Jeonghan sighs. “You really have to stop being so hard on him. He thinks you hate him, you know.”

Seungcheol sighs. “I don’t hate him.” 

“Well,  _ I _ know that, but does  _ he  _ know that? It really isn’t his fault. I get antsy because I’m exhausted and because there’s this guilt swimming around in my gut--no more like it’s jammed into my gut, and I can’t get it out. And Jisoo is always teeming with life, always seems so  _ young _ even when really, I’ve only got five years of eternal damnation on him. It might as well be centuries, really--” 

“--he’s childish,” Seungcheol says, frankly. “You know when you were out he would call us over to pet his hair so that he could sleep? Of course it ended with me telling him he needed to grow up and him crying. It’s things like that that make me sound harsh. I told him to just go after you--” 

“--now that’s the worst advice in the world,” Jeonghan says. “I didn’t leave to be followed. You should know that. Jisoo knows that. I went because I needed to get away, to do my penance.” 

“It’s not me you need to explain that to,” Seungcheol says, thinking of the thousands of people they’d killed in the early days, thinking back on the number of wars that they’d fought to keep their empire--and then later on, to survive. They were complicit in all of it. “I understand your conscience. I turned my back on my empire for you two--”

“--don’t pretend like there was still a country to turn your back on--” 

“--I risked a lot. We both did,” Seungcheol amends. 

“We  _ all  _ did. I don’t tell Jisoo those things because I want to spare him the guilt and the hurt. I don’t ever want him to feel like the fact that I don’t find joy in anything else anymore is his fault. It isn’t.” 

“Isn’t it--in a way? It was a royal command. If he hadn’t asked you to, would you have turned him?” 

Jeonghan looks at Seungcheol, takes another sip from his cocktail, the blood cool against his lips, his tongue. “Now see, if I’d lost him,  _ that  _ would’ve been eternal damnation.” 

  
  


When Jisoo comes to, they’re in an old inn by the countryside, the twilight bearing down on them. It looks too bright, the waning sunlight stinging his eyes. He’s hungry--there’s a deep pang in his gut that feels like gasping for air. He looks down at himself: his robes are still bloodstained, the red turning the royal blue a deep violet, the dried blood making the fabric heavier than it already was. He shifts on the bed, finds Jeonghan lying beside him, eyes shut, face still as marble, his hair spilling over his bare shoulder as if painted by some heavenly stroke of an ink-doused brush, his emerald green robes tied at his waist: blood-soaked too. It comes rushing back to him--the arrow, the blood, Jeonghan biting into him, a blackness overcoming him and then within that darkness a new life, a different kind of pulsing. Jisoo skims his hand curiously down Jeonghan’s forearm: there they were--the twin marks of his teeth where he’d bitten. Closing but not quite gone yet, small scars still soft. He feels his stomach lurch. It had tasted so good--odd but good, satisfying. Cautiously, he moves Jeonghan’s wrist to his lips. 

“Do that and you’ll kill him--and then yourself,” a deep voice says. Jisoo jolts, startled by the realization someone else is in the room. In the corner, seated in the shadows, the sunlight of dusk licking at a slippered foot, his sheathed sword resting against his chest, sits General Choi. He’s still in his high official’s hanbok, still fully armed, the black and gold caked in blood darker than the rest of the crimson. His expression is tired, somber, but his eyes are bright in his handsome, broad face--he’s standing sentry, listening for the arrival of enemies, trying to see the way the light moves in the periphery despite finding it blinding. 

“I’m hungry,” Jisoo says, his voice soft, whiny. “I’m so hungry. I command you to fetch me a meal.” 

“I know. But it isn’t safe to feed. And with all due respect, you’re not quite a prince anymore, Joha. Even if I wanted to fetch you a meal, there wouldn’t be any servants to order around. Things are different now. They’re going to be difficult for a while. You’re going to have to be patient,” Seungcheol says. He glances at Jeonghan, still deep in slumber. “Jeonghan is relatively young too--he isn’t equipped to turn anyone yet, let alone run like he did carrying you. It’ll take him a while to recover. If no one comes by midnight, we feed.”

Jisoo understands what he’s saying, but the hunger is painful--like a cramp in his being, at the center of him that won’t stop. He repeats himself, suddenly aware of the smells seeping in from under the door: so many hearts thudding in their soft delicate cages, so much blood coursing, all of it warm. It smells delicious. Jisoo feels his dry mouth start to water. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Seungcheol says. “You’ll get us killed.” 

Jisoo lets out a vicious whimper--begging tempered by irritation at being told what to do, half-pleading, half-threatening.  _ I’m hungry _ .  _ I’m so hungry.  _ He stays still for a few more hours, waiting until the lights under the door cease to flicker, until the innkeeper’s son comes into their room to change the oil in the lamp. There is a moment that passes between him and the General then, the start of centuries of resentment, a push-and-pull of apologies and hurt between them: the General seeing the moment before it happens but being deceived for a moment by the innocent tilt in the Prince’s doe eyes.  _ He won’t do it.  _ And then in a flash, there is Jisoo with his teeth in flesh, the blood pulsing as he drinks the young man dry, Seungcheol hating himself for not doing anything about it. After, Jisoo refuses to dispose of the body, finding the corpse horrific, not liking the way it looks like it’s looking up at him. It’s Seungcheol who mops up the blood with a spare blanket, Seungcheol who hides the remains in the closet. 

When the innkeeper comes looking for her son, it’s Seungcheol who says he had last seen him through the window, going to the outhouse with a candle. Jisoo watched him, then, both aware he’d done something wrong and indignant in the act of fulfilling hsi need, his want to survive.  _ I was hungry.  _ When Jeonghan finally stirs, emerging from slumber, Seungcheol only says one thing, nodding in Jisoo’s direction.

“Royal consort,” he says, his deep voice sharp with anger. “You turned him, you bury the damn body.”   
  


 

Jeonghan chooses Tokyo--takes a small apartment in Shibuya with barely anything in it: he brings along a single framed reel of photos of him and Jisoo, taken at one of the all-night photobooths at a train station in Seoul the last time they’d gone to visit. It’s four takes: Jeonghan holding his hand up to make a heart while Jisoo misses the cue, grinning at the camera instead, Jisoo leaning in to kiss Jeonghan’s cheek as Jeonghan tries to make another heart with his arm, Jeonghan glancing sidelong at Jisoo while he smiles sweetly for the photo, and then both of them lost in a passionate kiss, Jisoo’s lips upturned in that smile Jeonghan misses so much every time he’s away. He sets the photo up against the wall by the window. In that year, it will be the one thing that makes the studio space feel like home.

Fifty years before, the last time he’d gone off on what Jisoo had taken to calling his “retreats”, he’d gone to Paris to see what the hype was about, to see why everyone in San Francisco was suddenly sporting those small kerchiefs at their throats, to see why stripes and berets were suddenly in. His conclusion as he’d stood atop the Eiffel was it was okay. He looked at the lights and saw money, every immigrant slipping a stone into the foundations of a coffee shop they wouldn’t be able to afford to buy coffee in. It made him sad. That time had been a short one, barely six months.

The time before that, he’d gone to Venice to see the city before it sank into the sea, had fed the pigeons at the Piazza San Marco, had rowed himself a gondola, wondering at the many lives ongoing at that moment, wondering why they continued to live there if they knew it was in danger of disappearing. The first world war was coming to an end, all the newspapers read. Jeonghan wondered at that title. What made them think this was the first? Or that any of it would ever truly end?

_ When life is short, maybe you assume you won’t be there for what’s to come.  _

This time, he’s spurned on by a history book that he finds by strange happenstance in Jisoo’s library one evening when Jisoo’s insisted they play dominos with books they’ve never read. It details the Korean-Japanese war, the long history of invasions and failed attempts at peace, of the pains that both sides had inflicted upon each other. A failure at empathy, the book called war. A failure to be a person. It had hung heavy on Jeonghan, like a song whose melody he couldn’t get out of his head. 

He wanted to conduct an exercise in empathy, needed to know what it was like on the other side. The year in Japan was a lonely one, in a way, but a lively one too: he lived simply, getting his blood supply from a nearby clinic where one of Vernon’s friends, Minghao, worked as a pathologist. He drank it unseasoned, only when he needed to. He worked nights at a bar, sometimes DJ-ing, often tending bar, finding himself amused at the things they liked to drink--sugary-sweet, often more licorice than liqueur in colors of bright pink and iridescent green. On the weekends, he took long trips to provinces he suspected he’d fought in all those years ago when they would conduct ambush operations, riding in on horseback to slay every man, woman, and child they suspected to be invaders. 

He touched his fingers to the graves in apology, visited the monuments to say  _ forgive me for living longer _ or  _ what were fighting for, do you remember?  _ It made him feel a bit better for a while to feel included in that sadness, but the more he absolved himself, the bigger the darkness in him yawned. To feel worse to feel better, he felt worse about feeling better. Was it right to ask for absolution? Did he have a right? By kissing his hands to stone, did he gain the right to close that wound? 

When mortals are stabbed, they bleed to death when the blade is withdrawn--Jeonghan would know, it was his technique: pierce, twist, pull. Given eternal life in exchange for his viciousness, Jeonghan couldn’t draw the sword precisely because he couldn’t bleed to death. He’d read about King Arthur and Excalibur--Jisoo liked Lancelot, Jeonghan liked the stone. The last grave he visits is of the Captain who lead the siege of their palace, who’d ended the Hong bloodline, the sharp-shooter who had shot the arrow through Jisoo’s lung. The small epitaph had read it out like an achievement. The memory isn’t dulled by the years, he sees it vivid, in full color--Jisoo falling to the ground like a bird shot with a stone from the branch of a tree. His prince with all his laughter and wicked charm, his gentle mischief. After that, Jeonghan makes arrangements to head home.   
  


 

“Is he done telling you about my childish misdemeanor?” Jisoo asks, not looking up from his book--Human Acts by Han Kang, a novel on the Gwangju uprising--as Jeonghan walks into the library. “If he told you about the cuddling with Mingyu, I’m not surprised. Nothing happened.” 

Outside, Seungcheol’s car revs to life. He beeps twice before driving off into the night, having to make it home by dawn. 

Jeonghan feels an odd pang of jealousy followed by relief--he knows Jisoo would never do anything with anyone else, but he understands the temptation too, doesn’t quite like the visual of Mingyu holding him. Absence is a presence of its own that eats away at whoever is left behind. 

“He told me about the cuddling but not about Mingyu. If you say nothing happened, nothing happened.” He sits next to Jisoo, resting his head on his shoulder. 

Jisoo closes the book, keeping his pointer finger in to mark the page at which he’s stopped. His voice is calm but full of iciness that Jeonghan isn’t used to. “I was lonely without you. I don’t know why that needs to be said. I thought it would be obvious that if you spend centuries with someone, when they leave you and tell you you shouldn’t contact them for maybe a year-- _ maybe _ a year, Jeonghan--the uncertainty kind of leaves you winded.”

Jeonghan scoops Jisoo into his lap, nuzzling his neck, kissing his cheek. “I know. I know, I’m sorry.” 

Jisoo puts an arm around Jeonghan’s shoulders, strokes his face with his free hand. He studies Jeonghan’s face, leans down to kiss him. “What are you so guilty about? All the deaths? People die, Jeonghan. We’re doing our best too. You have to know that we’re doing our best.” 

Jeonghan shakes his head, tears gathering in his eyes now as he looks up at Jisoo, his beautiful face lit by the moonlight. When he speaks, his voice is soft, tender. He kisses Jisoo’s wrist, the hollow of his neck, the corner of his mouth.

“I’m guilty about the fact that someone like me who has so much blood on his hands, who has caused other people so much grief gets to keep someone as loving and warm and beautiful as you.” 

“And I’m a brat who wanted to abdicate the throne and ended up fucking the Lieutenant sent to guard him. I’m the one who couldn’t fight, who cost you and Seungcheol so much grief,” Jisoo smiles at Jeonghan, kissing him softly. “We don’t get to choose the cards we’re dealt, we only do our best to deserve them.”

“When do we deserve them?” 

Jisoo sweeps Jeonghan’s hair back, pleased that it’s growing out. He shrugs. “We don’t know. We just keep trying until we do. It’s like that Nirvana song--”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “--Cobain isn’t exactly who I aspire to.”

“But you can’t deny he knew a thing or two about pain,” Jisoo says, his gaze bearing into Jeonghan’s. “So I believe him when says  _ come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be. As a friend, as a known enemy.  _ Come as you are, Yoon Jeonghan. ” 

Jeonghan’s heart aches with love then, and he gathers Jisoo closer to him, kissing him soft and slow. He’d given up the world for this, the space before night and morning, a conversation held in a room filled to the ceiling with books. When they pull apart, the sun has begun to come up, too hot on their skin, spilling through the small split in the curtains. 

Jisoo climbs off of his lap, offering Jeonghan his hand. 

“Let’s go to bed.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun that sets, a love that binds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the end. Thank you so much for reading and sticking with me through my sporadic update schedule. I’ll update the Make Out Kids fic soon too (hopefully today). I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. :)

 “Oh no,” Jeonghan says, sighing as he hears the sound of footsteps approaching their porch, knowing the heft of the soles that climb up the stairs, feeling the hand on the rail--he knows who it is, knows that paired cadence: one pair going slow and steady, the other skipping like a stone over water. Jeonghan hears the beating heart that follows, a soft humming running through everything: soft as the sunrise, loud as rain on a tin roof. “Did we invite them over?”

It’s still early in the evening, barely an hour after dusk. He and Jisoo are sprawled out on the couch in their living room, Jeonghan sipping on a coffee-blood cocktail (bloodspresso, he’s calling it) that Jisoo’s concocted while Jisoo strums his guitar lazily, running through the same riff again and again.

Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be.

The melody is repetitive but Jeonghan likes it, is letting himself soak in the moment: the way that Jisoo looks lying on the couch with his black lace robe open, baring his chest, the line of his torso as it disappears into his pajamas that are set low on his hips like they might slip off any moment, like they might be undone by the slightest touch but stay by the skin of their teeth--just as Jeonghan tells himself that this time, he will stay and for good. Jeonghan likes the way that Jisoo’s long fingers pluck at the strings, at once nonchalant and precise. He likes the way that their cups sit beside each other, his half-drunk, the blood pooling at the bottom, the rest of it stained pink in the warm light--Joshua’s still full, neglected for the guitar, his attention already elsewhere. Jeonghan grins. How fitting. The past few weeks have gone by in a kind of domestic bliss: playful, seductive, ordinary, mundane, incredible. Mostly, Jeonghan is working on letting himself be okay with liking it, this, loving everything that Jisoo does without feeling guilt build like ice in his veins: cold and sharp, the touch quiet as a knife and just as sharp. Jeonghan wants the moment to stay, too--resents time the interruption.

Jisoo grins, taking in Jeonghan’s pout, the way that a small apostrophe forms between his brows.

“No but they’re always welcome here--”

“--except when it’s fuck o’clock and I’m still trying to wake up and spend time with my husb--”

Jisoo ruffles Jeonghan’s hair as he sets the guitar down, makes to get the door.

“--don’t be difficult--”

“--don’t be a brat. I swear. Don’t let them in, I’m not ready for--”

But Jisoo is already at the door, already turning the lock and before Jeonghan can say anything more their entire living room is abuzz with conversation, flooded with the sound of a pulse, the moment already turning into a different one: expanding into something else.

“--I CAN’T WAIT I’M SO EXCITED!”

“I’m so happy for you two,” Jisoo says, a smile on his lips as they walk into the living room.

“I know it’s a bit sudden,” Vernon says. “But it felt right. You know when things just feel right, right?”

Jisoo grins, then, letting out a small laugh. “I don’t know. I was on the cusp of death and had an arrow through my lung.”

Vernon snorts. “Right. Well. We’re just so hyped and it’s all so exciting.”

“I feel like I’m walking on sunshine! I mean--sorry guys.”

Jeonghan lets out an inward sigh as Seungkwan throws himself onto their sofa, Vernon on his heels, a dopey smile on his face as he follows suit, curling himself around Seungkwan. Jisoo meets Jeonghan’s eye, raises an eyebrow in warning. Behave.

“A little early, don’t you two think?” Jeonghan reaches for his cup, finishes off the last of his drink. “For house calls, I mean.”

“What he means,” Jisoo amends, heading over to the counter to pour bloodspresso into a cup for Vernon, water into a glass for Seungkwan. “Is it’s so nice to have you two over for breakfast. Tell us everything.”

Vernon waves a hand dismissively at Jeonghan. “It’s fine, Josh. I’m used to Captain Grumperpants over here throwing fits over nothing. Anyway, we wouldn’t have come otherwise but you two are like, the married friends, you know. We wanted it to be special when we told you guys. And we kind of have a favor to ask.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “Of course you d--”

“--can ask us anything, we’d be happy to help.”

Jisoo sets the drinks down on the coffee before taking a seat beside Jeonghan, slipping a hand around his waist, nuzzling the hollow of his neck. Jeonghan feels himself relax against Jisoo’s touch, feels himself calming down, settling into this new moment. Take them as they come.

“Well,” Vernon says. “We’re getting married. Seungkwan’s been staying over a lot and I’ve been giving it some thought so I asked and he said yes and it just sort of happened.”

Jeonghan nods, a wave of guilt going through him for not having been more supportive. “Happy for you guys. Love is always about luck in a big, big way--”

Jisoo glances at him, grins. “--you got lucky, huh?”

“Only in love,” Jeonghan says, grinning, planting the ghost of a kiss onto Jisoo’s temple. “And in it, absolutely.”

Seungkwan grins, bright eyes darting back and forth between them. “Which is exactly why we wanted to ask you guys if we could do it here. I mean, Vernon’s told me how it goes, how we need people to host, old love to usher in the new--and a place with history and we just thought, why not you guys--I mean who else do we know who’ve been in love for so long?”

Jeonghan blinks, for once not quite prepared--no easy refusal, no witty rebuttal.

Jisoo grins, then, knowing that Jeonghan’s been won over, knowing from years of being with him that underneath the Lieutenant’s armor, Jeonghan is soft and loving and easy as dusk.

“We’d love to.”

 

  
Weddings for those like them are not quite like those for the living. For one: the premise is different--it isn’t predicated on dying, on death. The end is not a promise, merely a possibility. And so instead of until death do us part, they say until the ocean runs out of salt. Wherein there is no end, they swear instead on the impossible, the improbable. Second, the question of religion is out of the question: no, they do not burn in churches or temples or mosques but they burn in the minds of those who own those places, who practice under their protection and so instead, they borrow from the witches, from the pagans, from those who worship the elements, the stars, the moon. The binding ceremony must be done in a place older than their union, a place with an older foundation, a place of love. It must be done at sunset, right at the border between light and shadow, to signify the willingness to sacrifice, to risk death and pain for the beloved. There is no priest, no judge, no officiate--only an older couple who had been bound as well to tether them to each other. A blessing, an omen, the passing on of a torch.

Jeonghan and Jisoo themselves had been wed by their friends Solar and Moonbyul, two witches who’d moved north into Canada in 1948 after years of struggling with sunny California. They didn't love the bay the way that Jeonghan and Jisoo loved it, didn't love the city enough to cope with its earthquakes and relentless sunshine. But they’d stayed long enough to host Jeonghan and Jisoo, to let them into their house, made of old wood and polished stone, strong glass and a solid metal frame. They’d stayed long enough to bless them, to bind them, to salt them to each other.

The wedding had been Jisoo’s idea, his pet, another one of his couches to reupholster, another one of his passion projects that he wouldn’t stop talking about even as it filled Jeonghan with anxiety, with guilt, with dread that came twinned with excitement and pleasure. It wasn’t that Jeonghan didn't want to get married, more so to Jisoo--it was that he wanted it so much, knew that he didn’t deserve it. After all, how many lieutenants had the honor, the privilege, the pleasure of marrying the princes whom they swore to protect? How many others, dead and alive, could be said to have lusted after the thing that Jeonghan found being handed to him on one of Jisoo’s specialty platters, vintage, ordered special from somewhere in the east?

Be mine forever, Jisoo loved whispering, then, teasing Jeonghan as he sat worried and restless at his desk. To whom do I belong, Jeonghannie? To whom do I belong forever and a day?

In the end, it was Jisoo’s happiness and Seungcheol’s hardiness that gave Jeonghan the courage to go through with it. Jisoo had smiled at him in the evenings as they woke, laughed against him as they had their suits fitted, kissed him stupid until as they bought the salt and sampled the blood for the celebration after, licking some of it off of each other. If this is how happy he made him, Jeonghan thought, then he wouldn’t mind taking some of the happiness for himself.

And so, they’d gotten married in the west-facing room of Solar and Moonbyul’s home, both of them clad in suits the color of burnt gold, the setting sun hot and dangerous, licking just short of the leather-clad feet. Around them, salt, between them in their shared chalice, blood laced with wine. In the shade, beside them, their two friends who’d been together for centuries now, whispering their blessings, binding them by the power of the sun and the moon, sentience and madness, for better or for worse.

Now, they stand in the room that serves as Jisoo’s library, usually full of books and papers strewn everywhere, now neatly stacked, kept, put aside in preparation for the day. Vernon and Seungkwan are standing in front of them, the sunset stopping just short of their feet. Vernon looks nervous (about the sun, about the wedding, about the life that is to come now that he has so much to lose after decades of having nothing, of simply passing through)--but Seungkwan is smiling, glad, eager, all of him excited for all of this, and somehow that seems to hold Vernon in place. Somehow, it goes on. Jeonghan and Jisoo say the words and sprinkle the salt and listen as Vernon and Seungkwan do the same, as they drink from the chalice (Seungkwan has a harder time, the blood not quite something he’s used to--or will ever get used to, he insists), as they say their vows. And then they’re kissing and it’s done. And then Mingyu is crying in the corner and Seungcheol is saying something about taking the party downstairs and then they’re all heading down there for the refreshments, and then everything is song and merriment, dancing and laughter.

 

  
After everyone has left, Jeonghan and Jisoo stand barefoot in Jisoo’s library, holding each other close, swaying to a song that only both of them hear. They’d been too busy playing host to dance earlier--and anyway, Vernon and Seungkwan had already shown enough public displays of affection to make everyone want to throw up, for everyone there to remember for years. But now, it’s five in the morning, the sun just short of rising. Now, they are alone and have a moment before they have to head to bed, both of them filled with sentimentality, with love--for the moment, for the past, for the years that they still have together, the years that their friends have together.

Jeonghan puts a hand softly on Jisoo’s waist, holding him close. He smiles, knowing that Jisoo too, is smiling where he’s leaning against Jeonghan’s shoulder, where his lips meet the hollow of Jeonghan’s neck. They stay like that for a while, both of them just enjoying the moment, the scent of each other, the way they feel against each other, the sounds of their home reverberating around them--somewhere, a floorboard squeaking as a mouse scampers in the space between the floors, somewhere the wind whistling through a room, somewhere in the house a chime stirring from where it’s hung by the door.

“Do you regret any of it?” Jisoo asks, whispering softly against Jeonghan’s skin.

Jeonghan lets out a sharp laugh. “Not even a little.”

“Even the pain? The suffering? The guilt?”

Jeonghan hears the worry in his voice, pulls him in closer, rubbing his back. “Even that. For you, I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. Cut down whoever needed to be cut down, let you drink from me again if it meant saving you, keeping you with me.”

“I’m thankful for that,” Jisoo says softly. “I know I dig at you a lot for going, for the guilt, for always worrying, but I know how much it cost you to keep me. And every night, I wake up grateful. Every night, I think about how you were the only thing luck let me keep.”

He lifts a hand up to Jeonghan’s nape, ruffling his hair, grown a little past his chin now. He grins, meeting Jeonghan’s gaze and kissing him soft, slow--one of those rare kisses that wasn’t urgent, that had no need to consume, to devour. If Jeonghan still had a heart that beat, it would skip--instead, he settles for his soul or what was left of it rushing up against him, his entirety swelling with love.

“Who do you belong to, Hong Jisoo?”

“Who else, Lieutenant?”

Jeonghan grins. “Until the ocean runs out of salt?”

Jisoo smiles, sly, pulls him close until their foreheads are pressed together. They sway, slow.

“Until the ocean is folded and hung up to dry, and the seven stars go squawking, like geese about the sky.”

In a few moments, the sun will rise in the east, and they will move light as feathers into the bedroom, falling into exhausted slumber in each other’s arms--but for now there are two men dancing in a room filled with books, their hearts bound by sunlight and shade both, their bodies young but their souls old. For now, there is this and they are here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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